My kids love hearing the stories behind their namesakes and each still pretty much like their given names, except for our youngest: while playing a name game at a friend's baby shower, Hope insisted she wanted to be called Robin.
"How come my name doesn't start with a H, like the girls?"
For two reasons: naming your children with the same letter sounds harmless enough, until you try hollering for one of them, and can't seem to remember their names, without sounding like an idiot...each and every blessed time...because, I'm smart like that.
There is also a pretty neat and totally goosebump-worthy story behind the reason why we chose to name our son, Glen.
One of my husband Garth's (not his real name) earliest childhood memories was from the summer when he was about 4 years-old: he fell into a rose bush, ten times his size (as he remembers it) when a really big boy from the neighborhood ran over and, without hesitation reached in through the thorns, lifted him out, brushed him off and then walked him home.
The really big boy was a 19-year old, his name was Glen Bates -- a few months later, he was killed in Vietnam.
But wait, my story is about to get a whole lot goosebump-ier.